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2013.04.19 - In The Rubble
The cloudburst didn't last long, although the sun still has proven reluctant to shine down on the city, but the temperature is still fairly mild. After spending a large part of the day with Jubilee, Fern got dressed again and headed back out. She typically picks up her check on Friday, and then goes to the park, when it's fair. Today, though, her steps veer, almost before she realizes it, and she finds herself standing before a familiar building a short distance from the restaurant. Fern looks unusually solemn as she lets her eyes roam over the front, gaze stopping on the windows of one particular apartment. It's a few minutes before she moves, toward the building instead of away. Picking her way through the building, up the once familiar stairs and down a hallway, Fern approaches the apartment that, last she had seen, was sporting a blown off door and at least one hole in the wall. Repairs have never been made, and the young woman steps over part of the door, just into the apartment. Her frown is deep, cutting furrows in her forehead, as she looks around, pulling her sweater tighter, as if chilled. This place has purposely been left in a state of disrepair. It serves as small monument to everything that started and ended here. There are holes punched through plaster and plywood, bloodstains on the carpet, burns and bullet holes everywhere. The damage isn't just limited to the one apartment, either. It extends across the hall, as well. "I left it this way on purpose," One murmurs. "As a reminder." As usual, he's approached quietly. This time because he didn't know how he'd be received. He comes to his old apartment to think. When all of your demons wear the same face as you, sometimes a physical reminder of past events helps to solidify the surreal. The doctor is standing behind Fern with his arms crossed over his chest and a grocery bag dangling from one hand. No bulletproof vest today. Not even a visible firearm. Just dark slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and a striped tied that's been generously loosened. "How've you been?" he asks. Lost in her thoughts, the voice startles Fern even though she recognizes it at once, and she spins around, taking a few steps back and somehow managing not to end up on her rear. She pales, blood draining from her face where it usually rushes in, blue eyes seeming more blue because of it. For a moment she just stands there, eyes wide, staring. When she swallows it's a visible gulp, and her eyes drop, when she speaks it's softly, "I didn't know you'd be here." It sounds guilty, an apology. Her eyes dart around, looking anywhere but at One. "Alright. You?" "Tolerable," One replies. If he's surprised, he hides it well. Then again, few things seem to startle him. "I hope I didn't frighten you," he continues mildly. "I heard movement. I didn't want to reveal myself until I knew who was here. Squatters occasionally find their way in." "Yeah.. no... it's ok," Fern stammers, settling on staring at a blood stain on the floor. Until she realizes that she's staring at a blood stain on the floor, wonders who's blood it is, and has to look away from it. She takes another step back, even though he's not advanced, and then turns, in the guise of looking around more fully. "I suppose anywhere is better than living on the street." "There are many who are desperate. These are difficult times." A hint of sadness flickers across One's eyes. For a short time, this ruined place was home to Stray, a mutant he rescued and befriended, only to have her disappear. He glances back up at Fern and cocks an eyebrow. "I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable." Fern's boots clomp lightly as she moves further into the ruined apartment, her skirt swaying around her knees. She has memories here too, but they all revolve around the man in the doorway. She turns with a swirl of skirt, only now looking back at him directly. "No," she lies, fairly convincingly to people who don't know her, not very well to someone who does. "I didn't know you'd be here," is repeated, and she adds, "I didn't mean to intrude." One smiles his familiar, crooked smile. "You have every right to be here. You did more to make this place a home than I ever did. See, there are the drapes you picked out. There's another bit of them over there." He points to two different corners of the kitchen. "And look, there's some stuffing from the throw pillows you brought." There's actually a bit of a smile as Fern looks to the different corners, then to the stuffing. The good recollection of how the apartment once was outshines the memory of how it got into this state. She stoops, picking up another scrap of fabric. "I loved this comforter," she says softly, eyes on the cloth. "I know," One replies, equally quiet. Now his eyes are fixed on the floor, studying the roadmap of burns and bloodstains that draw intricate lines across the floor. "I'm sorry things turned out the way they did." Fern crumples the scrap of fabric in her hand, sliding it into her pocket as she turns again, facing One once more. The sun's found it's way between some clouds for the moment, and a feeble ray coming in through the window catches on something silver at the top of her right boot. A look would reveal it to be the head of a smallish hammer, handle tucked into the boot along the outside of her calf. She nods, "I am, too." The light catches One's eye. He frowns, naturally curious as his eyes find their way to the hammer. He cocks his head to the side and points at it with a thumb. "Gotta admit, that begs an inquiry. Planning on doing a little home improvement? Or is there more to that thing than meets the eye?" Blue eyes drop, then come back up, and now the color comes back to Fern's face. "No. More like very bad self defense?" Her shoulders shrug, brows lifting as a wry smile barely tugs at her lips. "It's generally less dangerous than a gun, or a knife that I don't know how to use properly. And fairly effective." "Bad self defense is better than no self defense," One quips, gesturing to the vacant spot where his holster would normally rest. He does look a little uncomfortable without it. "This started out as a quick jaunt down the street, though. I've been trying to keep a low profile lately." Fern's frown returns at this, eyes sharpening on One's face. "There hasn't been any... trouble?" Her gaze shifts, drifting over him as if looking for evidence of said trouble, and she straightens, as if expecting it to occur right this second. She's gotten pretty good at getting that hammer into her hand in seconds, although her speed is nowhere near the good doctor's. Still, her body language says pretty clearly that she'd still fight for him. One lets out a low, dry chuckle. "When isn't there trouble?" he quips. "Nothing too terribly out of the ordinary, though. I haven't managed to track down any substantial leads on that... thing I've been working on." He pauses, shrugs, and rolls his shoulders. "I hope to find out more soon. How about you? What have you been getting yourself into?" Another step, and Fern is next to the broken remains of the dining table, turning to lean on it lightly, her posture easing. Her aversion to looking at One has apparently gone, gaze level as it holds on him. "You will." There's no doubt in her mind of that. Another quirk of her lips comes as she tries to decide where to even begin to answer that. "Trouble and more trouble?" Out of the frying pan of Bangkok and into the fire of New York City. "Zombies from another timeline. Disappearing werewolves. Very large men with very big fists." She glances down again, to her knee which shows the last signs of a healing scrape, but her eyes come back up at once. "I don't heal as fast as you do." "Being a monster does have fringe benefits," One agrees, his lighthearted tone taking any heat out of his words. "Sounds like you've been staying busy, to say the least. Glad to hear you're keeping yourself intact. Remember, cheap heroics tend to lead to dead heroes." This joke is a little more wry, but he's still smiling. Despite the light tone, Fern immediately speaks up, "Not a monster." Just as quickly her eyes drop, in fact, her head ducks because just dropping her gaze isn't enough. "Not the kind of busy I might choose. And I'm no hero, so maybe I'll get to live." Another good reason for not donning a costume as has been suggested. "I certainly hope so. You know you can still call me if you ever get into trouble." It's not a question. One looks Fern in the eye and holds her gaze for a moment, then nods. "No matter what happens. You still have your transmitter?" Fern's head raises, eyes meeting One's, squinting as if trying to minimize the impact of holding his familiar gaze. She nods, "I still have it. It's at home." She pauses before her voice softens again, "I didn't think you'd come." A slight push has her straightened, a step forward taken before she stops. "Of course I would. I did what I did because I thought it'd be safer for you." One takes a step closer as well. He hasn't looked away. His expression is thoughtful, but otherwise difficult to read. "If you ever need me, all you have to do is say so." A breath huffs softly through Fern's nose, a smile coming, crooked and sad. "Yeah, that's not workin' out so great, is it?" The whole Bangkok thing aside, she's been in far more trouble in the past several weeks than before. Not to mention that feeling that a hand just reached into her chest, grabbed a handful of everything, and twisted. "For what it's worth, ditto. You know where to find me better than anyone." Speaking of which, "Are you still at that abandoned plant?" One takes a deep, steadying breath and nods. "Yeah," he says. "It's not what I'd call cozy, but it's quiet there. Has everything I need, too." For the first time, he's not looking her in the eye. In fact, he's not looking at her at all. He's turned his head to the side slightly, averting his gaze and studying the spiderwebbing of cracks in some drywall. With his attention on the cracks, Fern can let her own steely front crack for a moment, her face softening as she looks at One. She knows every tiny bit of his face, could picture him clearly every time it came unbidden into her head, sees it in dreams and nightmares alike. It's not painless to see it now, real, warm, just steps away. She turns abruptly and steps over to the window, because she's got to move somewhere, and putting her back to him for a few moments gives her a chance to brace again. "I'm just glad you're alright." There's hardly even a crack in her voice. "Likewise," he replies, and he sounds sincere. It's only that that One realizes he's studying the imprint of his own body. It's a point of impact from when one of his counterparts threw him across the apartment. A brief shiver runs down his spine as the memory replays in his head. "Are you happy?" he finally asks. Fern doesn't turn from the window, folding her arms, one bending to bring her thumb to her lips, the nail getting chewed on. She shakes her head in the negative, eyes on his reflection in the window. Her voice sounds near tears as she says, "I didn't get the part in Shakespeare in the Park." As if that is the sole source of her unhappiness. With his computerized brain, One has already memorized every crack and dent in the wall he's studying. He could probably sketch it from memory. Still, he stares, because it gives him something to look at. "Maybe you will," he murmurs. "One day. Maybe they just weren't ready for you yet." Fern's arms drop and she turns on her heel, shoulders straightening, jaw tightening. She should have listened to Jubilee, and she didn't, and there's all this pain again. But she didn't think he'd be here. She should have known better. "Maybe someday," she says, voice slightly strained. "I should go. I'll carry the disc. For an emergency." One narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side. He's looking at Fern again, and with his brow furrowed as deeply as it is, he's obviously distressed. "I... I'm sorry. I'm no good at this--" he gestures helplessly back and forth between the two of them, somehow managing to mime the concept of interpersonal relations. "I didn't mean to upset you. I never really know the right thing to say in these situations." His distress tears her guard away again, for a moment it's mirrored on Fern's face, before a subtle shift, a look he's seen before. Longing. One hand comes up to cover a cough meant solely to give her a second of recovery. As the hand flutters down to rest lightly on her chest she shakes her head, eyes downcast. "No, it's alright. It's not you, One." The hand goes up again, scratching her nose, giving her something to hide behind as she moves, feet taking her toward the broken door. As she moves to pass him, she murmurs, "Anita misses you too." One's shoulders sag and his head droops slightly as Fern crosses his path on her way to the door. "Please give her my regards. To everyone at the restaurant. I haven't wanted to..." Helplessly, he trails off. What can he say without risking more harm? As she departs, so does he. Rather than the door, he makes his way to the busted-out window. "Be safe," he calls over his shoulder. Then he vaults through the opening, bypassing the fire escape entirely and dropping straight to ground level. He lands in a crouch, straightens, and dusts himself off. It's the work of a moment for him to disappear into the crowd. Category:Log